I want to carefully carry with me—
This basket
Of precious eggs.
Every one has its own space
In my heart.
But sometimes
I worry
That my attention
Will slip,
I won’t give each
The time it deserves
To turn and caress
And be mindful of,
That I will jostle the basket
And let one slip.
I want to swaddle them
With soft grass and feathers,
Turn them in the direction of the sun,
Breathe love and understanding
Into their souls.
Hover over them,
Keep them safe.
But like the hen
Who leaves the nest
To stretch her legs
And scratch for worms,
Knowing there is always
The possibility of the sneaking weasel,
I too must learn to let go.

My foot rock, rock, rocking
Mimics the lift and drop of waves.
Breeze in the walnut leaves
Sounds like the hiss of surf,
And a car passing on the road—
Wind in the rigging.
Where is the keening of gulls
Tumbling through the salt air?
Replaced by a cricket in the stone wall
And a bullfrog over the road in the pond.

Sudden screech of blue jays
Sounds a false note,
Arresting my downward spiral.
A drama fit for a king plays out.
Ten seconds and the act is done.
Attack, plunder, infanticide,
Feathers.
Distraught phoebe’s screech
At the sight of their nest
Dislodged from the eaves.

It’s a tough time of year for me as a writer. Yes, I have spring writer’s fever and I’m itching to explore new projects, and eager to finish revisions. But I have one big problem. My brain needs sugar! Like the hummingbird who flits from flower to flower to satiate his unending need for nectar–they consume half their body weight in sugar each day– I too need to feed the receptor in my brain that’s drawn to nature. Here are a few of the things that keep me from putting my butt in my seat on an hourly basis.

My garden is constantly beckoning through the window.

And then there’s the woodland and the hedgerows . . .

And the wildlife . . .

What’s a writer to do, except–

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
–Robert Herrick (17th century)